I wonder if all this (your
hesitation, my flustered-ness – not a word – and our
flailing around the topic, everything)
is just a re-enactment (and
all the world's a stage)
of
all those confessions which came before
us, of all those (maybe-) couples which came before
us?

Just how many people (and
all the men and women merely players)

maybe our age, younger, older, have
felt these feelings and said these words?
And all of them thought, at that time, that
this is real.
And all of them believed, at that time, that
this is special.

It's not impossible that all
our words [give a monkey a typewriter]
have been said before, that all
our feelings [and it might just type out,]
have been felt before, because
world is huge,
time is infinite,
[completely at random,]
all this could have happened before.
[the complete works of Shakespeare.]

(all by chance, by mere chance, just like how we fall in l—)

Today you said you like (and just that word alone took an eternity)
me and I said I think I like (and just that word again took another eternity)
you too and who cares
if all this is nothing new?
It's still real. It's still special.
(even if it may not last)
So let the world be a stage, let us all be players
(Macbeth is dead anyway)
and let the monkey smash his typewriter
(monkeys prefer bananas anyway)
for all I care.

A duet can play a duet again
and again
and again even if countless
duets have played this duet before.
That's why you like (me) music
that's why I like (you) music too.
I like liking you and being liked by you –
and that's all that matters for now.

da capo, da capo, da capo al fine.

.

.

.

(encore?)